''You are our guest''

The walk from the Sanlıurfa bus station to the city center is about one kilometer, not a bad distance to cover on foot. In the fading pink light of a southeastern evening, I walked past a dusty soccer pitch where boys played on small fields divided with white stones, the same color as the stone walls of a castle I could see on a hill to the south. I crossed a big road ringing the city like Frogger: one lane at a time, which hardly guarantees safety as Turkish drivers do not believe in lanes.

The road narrowed as it approached the city, squeezing through a series of cemeteries with handsome rock walls. They too matched the castle. All the headstones pointed one way--towards Mecca. Some were painted green, the color of Islam, and many bore seemingly impossible dates. 1322-1986. 1297-1950. Not so: those departed souls lived in two eras, the Ottoman with the Islamic calendar, and the Republican period with the Gregorian. Born in the former, died in the latter.

I found a hotel, left my bags, and walked back into Urfa's streets. The main avenue--Attaturk Caddesi, as usual--was lined with modern shops and banks, but the cobbled sidewalks, narrow alleys, and stately mosques betrayed a much greater history.

I stopped at a lokantı for dinner, where a shelf of goat skulls above the soup pot indicated the province of the floating morsels of meat. I passed on the soup and ordered two lamacun and ayran instead.

By now, the evening had ended and a full moon vaguely illuminated the streets, which were full of shopkeepers closing for the night and boys selling a few remaining simit (a type of Turkish bagel) from metal trays carefully balanced atop their heads. I wandered through the market and found a pastry shop, with a rack of cooling cookies out front. ''What are these?'' I asked the teenager behind the counter. He told me, and asked where I was from. America, I said, and asked how much for one. Smiling, he said, ''Free. Welcome to Urfa.''

I continued to the city's square, below the castle I had admired earlier. Gardens and great expanses of stone surrounded two ponds, full of holy carp: they say anyone who eats them will go blind. A boy asked me, in English, ''Mister, fish eatings you want?'' I bought some fish food and threw it to the already fat carp.

I walked back towards my hotel, stopping to drink a beer in a nearly abandoned bar. Drinkers are rare in Urfa. As usual, I went to bed early. Night life in southeastern Turkey is limited to endless tea and board games, and I can't do that every night.

I returned to the market the next day for lunch. I sat down on a diminutive square stool and ordered, ''one of those.'' The inevitable question came: yes, I am foreign. American. I speak a little Turkish. How? I took a class in America. (I am well-practiced with these words.)

A crowd of curious merchants was gathering, eager to see me and hear my broken Turkish. ''What is America like?'' the men asked me. ''Like Turkey,'' I said. (And really, it is.) ''But you are Christians and we are Muslims,'' they replied. ''Doesn't matter,'' I said. ''Bir dunya, bir millet.'' One world, one people. They liked that, and quickly agreed.

A man handed me a fresh date, and asked about my religion. This was getting complicated fast. I'll try to translate my response directly to English. I said something like:

''My religion? There is none. But there is a god, I believe. But which god? I don't know. Muslim god? Christian god? Jewish god? Hindu gods? Greek gods? I don't know. To know this... difficult.''

It was not difficult for this group: they explained that Allah is the only god, and then said a lot of complicated things I didn't understand. They kept repeating something, and indicated that I should say it with them. People often do this to help me pronounce hard words, but as I reached the end of the phrase, I realized what I had just said: ''There is no god but Allah and Muhammed is his prophet,'' in Arabic.

Technically, I had just become a Muslim. That's all you have to do: say those words and you're done. My friends laughed, and asked if I'd like to go to the mosque with them that afternoon. I thought I'd rather return to the bar.

I stood up and asked how much, but the man who had handed me ''one of those'' shook his head and said, ''free, and sit. Tea is coming.'' So I sat, protesting, but the other men chimed in, saying ''you are our guest and you will not pay.'' We drank tea, I asked about their families, I showed pictures of my family, and then I finally stood, shaking hands all around. The crowd I had attracted dispersed. As I walked on, mandarins, dates, and apples were quietly handed my way: sweet evidence of a town's goodwill.

The colors of this market were vibrant and far removed from the manufactured Ottomanism of the west. Fiberglass roofs hung over the alleys, lending a milky quality to the colors. Shiny olives--a dozen shades of gray, and another dozen green--waited for customers in 20 liter buckets. Men and women alike wore pale violet scarves, a color I had seen nowhere else in Turkey. Other men wore puşi, scarves of checkered red and white, creatively draped over their heads and shoulders. Grayish wool stood in huge, puffy stacks outside workshops, soon to be spun. Shoe shine men waited for customers, their hands stained brown by the polish. Golden tobacco sat in bags, and I watched men sample it by rolling a cigarette before ordering, ''yari kilo.''

A loop through the oldest part of town took me by gangs of kids eager to practice their ''hellowhatsyournamewhereareyoufrom.'' ''Hello! My name is Riley. I am from America. What are your names?'' I gave them pencils, and when I ran out, I dipped into my personal stash of pens. Eventually, I could only hand out smiles, which everyone returned.

Sometimes these crowds practice a different English word: ''money, money!'' But there would always be one or two kids, usually the smallest, who would shake their heads and say, with great dignity, ''no, no money.'' I listened to them.

I was sad to leave Urfa two days later. I could tell I was somewhere special: a place of unique beauty and kindness unmatched by anywhere I have ever been. The days after Urfa where disappointing, as nothing could match the spendor of Glorious Urfa. (The prefix ''Sanlı'' means glorious.)

I hopped from town to town, visiting ancient churches and mosques. I stopped at Hasankayf, a ruin that rivals Macchu Picchu's elegance. I was alone there. I drank tea and watched television beamed from Istanbul: difficult to believe it was the same country as the southeast. I met Kurdish men who sympathized with the PKK--they told me stories of torture and brothers lost forever in the mountains. I shared holy perfume brought from Mecca by old men. I played Turkish board games--still haven't won yet.

Winter is coming here and it's time to go to Cyprus. But I'll be back.

Photos from eastern Turkey

If you click on the photo, it'll shrink and reveal its caption. Or, click here to see the show full screen. (Link leads to Flickr.)



I'm in Turkish Cyprus now, which is a lot like western Turkey. The promised post about the Kurds will be up soon.

Once again, thanks to Fabio Cavassini for building the great tool that makes these slideshows so easy.

I am everyone's uncle

I woke up at five o'clock this morning when the call to prayer shattered the silence of downtown Gaziantep: Allah Akbar... Allah Akbar... It lasted around 10 minutes, as usual, and then the quiet of early-morning eastern Turkey returned. My trip has followed a similar pattern: silence, punctuated by bursts of expression. Such is life traveling in a country where I can communicate basic ideas but not well-formed thoughts.

I speak enough Turkish to get around and to explain who I am. I can ask simple questions about almost anything, and usually understand the answer. However, real communication is beyond me. (A recent misunderstanding: a man told me that he had family in the U.S., and I tried to ask if his brother had emigrated. Unintentionally, I asked about his wife, which he found hilarious.)

I can and do make friends, if even for just a few hours: strangely, people always want my phone number, which is pointless because there's no way I could ever have a conversation in Turkish on the phone. But over a tea or a beer, my unwieldy Turkish, plus smiles and hand gestures, is enough to communicate basic ideas. When I don't understand words, I pay careful attention to body language.

Turks are a physically expressive bunch. Certain gestures usually replace words: the right hand over the heart coupled with a smile means ''No thanks;'' a click of the tongue and subtly raised eyebrows means ''no;'' and the thumb and index finger rubbed together means ''good stuff'' or ''expensive.''

When I make these gestures, it confuses the hell out of people. Most memorably, a Russian waitress (and prostitute) responded to my non-verbal ''no'' with a surprised, ''Turk!?'' No, I said, American. She then offered herself to me again (yes, that way...) and when I made a face of disgust, she tried to overcharge me for my beer. Not so fast: as I made the ''expensive'' gesture, I asked the men (who were much more interested in her than I was) at the next table how much for a beer. I left the proper amount on the table, and went out the back door, never to return to that bar and the brothel next door.

So I content myself with long periods of minimal self-expression, and then explode into joyous English (or Spanish, but that's unusual) when I meet people with whom I share a language. Couchsurfing has been a wonderful addition to this trip, primarily because it's helped me find people I can really communicate with. It would be difficult to suspend verbal self-expression, and thanks to Couchsurfing, I haven't had to.

Everything in this part of Turkey has at least two names, sometimes three. This city's official name is Gaziantep, but everyone calls it Antep. (The prefix Gazi, which means ''warrior for Islam,'' was added in the 1920's to commemorate local resistance to the French, who sought to expand their Syrian colony to the south.) Other cities have official Turkish names which have replaced Kurdish ones on maps and signs, but still are known by their old names. These multiple names reflect the multiple ethnic and religious identities of the region--and make buying bus tickets really confusing.

This afternoon, a boy made a face at me as I walked down Antep's main market street. He startled me, and I guess it showed, because looked guilty and said, ''Pardon, abi.'' Sorry, uncle. In Turkey, everyone is everyone's uncle.

I'm sitting outside a tea house (çay alırsınız, abi?) below the hill-top remains of Antep's castle. The hill is entirely man-made, a relic of thousands of years of human presence. Each successive empire has built a new fortress on top of the old, adding to the giant pile of bricks, mortar, and antiques: Ottoman on top of Egyptian on top of Byzantine on top of Hittite...

There's no reason I came to Antep: it warrants only a brief mention in my guidebook, noting its excellent museum (I'll go this afternoon) and pleasant parks. (The latter is a rarity in Turkey, particularly because the parks are thoughtfully sited to separate the industrial and residential sectors of the city. Urban planning in Turkey? It can't be.)

My German hotelier asked me yesterday morning why I had come to Antep: I couldn't say any more than, ''Well, it was kind of on my route.'' (Not that I have a defined route. Two days ago, I was all set to skip Antep and go to the Hatay with a medical student I met, but she didn't invite me. I was probably over-optimistic.)

I don't know why I came, but I haven't found a reason to leave. The weather is nice. People are friendly and curious about me. (I'm finally comfortable with children's stares.) The food is stupendous: Antep is legendary throughout Turkey for its baklava, and I eat way too much of it.

How did I get to Antep? Well, I'll work backwards for a change.

I came to Antep two days ago from Malatya, a modern and unremarkable city four hours north. I spent much of my three days there working on a post about Turkish nationalism (see below) and getting lost in the market. I couchsurfed with Ahmet, a Sergeant in the Turkish army, and more importantly, a drummer in an army band. We drank a lot of beer and had many great conversations about a range of topics--Turkish politics to the Turkish military to Turkish women.

I had come to Malatya by a night train from Ankara. Unfortunately, sleepers were sold out so I spent 16 hours in second class. It was still better than a bus. My time in Ankara was brief: just long enough to drink most of a bottle of Armenian cognac with some Couchsurfing friends and catch the train. (Reconciliation between Turkey and Armenia begins in the bottle.)

I flew to Ankara from Trabzon, where I had returned to visit my friend Dicle, whom I had met three weeks earlier: it was a good choice, as she had made me an apple pie. (It was one of the most caring things anyone has done for me in a long time. Of course, she had no idea how to make a pie, so she looked up a recipe on the internet: it turned out well.) I spent three days there roasting chestnuts, eating wonderful food, and enjoying the company of people I already knew.

Before Trabzon, I was in Erzurum, a frigid city in the northeast. I couchsurfed with Veysel, a veterinary student, and his family, and also met two couchsurfers riding their bikes from Europe to India and Nepal... I can hardly imagine. Aside from being damn cold, Erzurum is situated right in the middle of the biggest hills I've ever seen--I hesitate to call them mountains, because their rolling, soft contours don't look much like the jagged peaks I'm used to. If I had gone up in them, I'm sure I would call them mountains.

Before that, I was in Kars, and you've heard about that.

Despite Antep's unexpected charm, I'll leave for Urfa tomorrow. I still have plenty of places to go, but time is short. I'll be in Cyprus in two weeks. The more time I spend in Turkey, the more time I feel I need.
-----
21 November:
A rather embarrassing correction--a brief look at my dictionary tells me that ''abi'' does not mean ''uncle.'' It's a colloqualism of ''ağabi,'' which means ''older brother.'' Goes to show just how good my Turkish is.

To ask why is forbidden: Turkish nationalism

A few weeks ago, the PKK launched a daytime raid on an isolated Turkish army garrison near the Iraq border. As usual, the attack came from inside Iraq. Seventeen soldiers were killed. This post had been attacked several times before, yet it had not been reinforced. Radio requests for backup were not answered, despite the presence of other Turkish troops nearby.

Needless to say, the Turkish media covered this story nonstop for days: footage of funerals, wailing mothers, and speeches condemning the terrorists dominated the nightly news. Although my Turkish isn't good enough to understand broadcasts, I could understand that two important questions went unasked in almost all of the media: how and why?

One paper finally dared to do a little digging, and found some damning stuff. The Taraf daily published photos that seemed to show that top commanders knew this attack was coming, but did nothing about it. It's still unknown if these photos were real or not, but regardless, the military's reaction spoke volumes about modern Turkey: The new Chief of Staff İlker Başbuğ said warned the media ''to be careful, to be on the right side.'' He denied the authenticity of the photos but provided little evidence, and generally limited himself to threatening the press.

And why? Well, no one ever asked that question. And no one ever does. I've been puzzling over the unusual nature of Turkish political society for several months now, and I've now learned that I'm not supposed to ask why. Things are as they are for a reason, and it's impolite to question. And that's just for foreigners: Turks who ask why are suspected of disloyalty. Turkish society is generally free and open, but certain institutions--most obviously the military--are off limits to criticism. Legal penalties exist, but simple social taboos limit discussion almost as effectively. Nationalism--effectively, a set of shared beliefs and assumptions--guides how Turks understand their country.

It's impossible to understand Turkey without thinking about nationalism. I've made a lot of people uncomfortable in the past two months by asking them about Turkey's unmentionable topics: the Armenians, gender relations, the Kurdish problem, etc. But nothing bothers people more than asking them about nationalism.

Turkish nationalism is a relatively new phenomenon. Its origins date to the late 19th century, at the earliest. During Ottoman times, ''Turks'' were simply the majority in a multinational empire. Islam provided the most important bond, not any ethnic, political, or social nation.

This was not true of the Empire's other nationalities. One of the results of waning Ottoman power was the emergence of national movements (some of which were supported by European states, eager to gain new colonies in Ottoman lands) among the Empire's minorities. The establishment of new (primarily Christian) national states in former Ottoman territories prompted an ideological crisis among the Empire's Turkish elite: what would the direction of the Ottoman state be?

There were three primary choices: Ottomanism, Islamism, or Turkism. Briefly, Ottomanism was about attempting to create a pan-national ''Ottoman'' identity, but it was probably to late for that. Islamism is self explanatory: it would have tied the empire together with religion, but that would have alienated the Empire's significant non-Muslim population. The final choice, Turkism, requires a little more explanation.

Turks in Turkey are part of a recognizable, multi-state nation that stretches all the way to Western China. (There are about 250 million ''Turks'' throughout central Asia.) They speak similar languages, are almost all Muslim, and trace their lineage to the same mythical root. ''Turkism,'' as it was initially concieved, advocated uniting all Turks in a state called ''Turan.'' (There are still some people who would like to see this happen.) The Russian Revolution in 1917 and the spread of Soviet power into central Asia killed this dream, but really, it was never realistic.

During the last years of the Ottoman Empire, different groups advocated each of these, but the model that emerged was a strange synthesis of all three. Ataturk and his allies created a new national identity that had to be taught to citizens of the new Turkish Republic. Zia Gokalp, one of the intellectual fathers of the Republic, put it this way: ''Nation is a group composed of men and women who have recieved the same education, who have received the same acquisitions in language, morality, religion, and aesthetics... Men want to live together, not with those who carry the same blood in their veins, but with those who share the same language and faith.''

Essentially, everyone who lived within the borders of the new Republic, spoke Turkish, and was Muslim automatically became a Turk. Of course, this definition has evolved, but it basically holds true today. (I'm going to write about the Kurdish issue in a couple weeks, and I'll address this again then. Most Kurds are Muslims, and had been united with Turks during the Ottoman era by a shared religion, but the new Turkish nationalism alienated them. For decades, Turkey insisted that the Kurds were really Turks who had forgotten their identity--a clever, if ineffective, way to expand the definition of Turkish.)

Turkish nationalism is an ideological phenomenon: it is driven by loyalty to a set of ideals, not by allegiance to any ethnic or religious group. In some ways, this is a good thing. The Turkish identity is somewhat flexible, and it is possible to ''become Turkish.'' However, it also means that one cannot question those ideals--established, of course, by Ataturk--without jeopardizing one's ''Turkishness.''

Turkey's ideological nationalism strips dissidents of their national identity and labels them traitors. As a foreigner, I am allowed some leeway, but plenty of the things I've said and written on this trip would not be tolerated if I were Turkish. (People just try to get me to understand. I rarely do.)

Some time ago, I asked a friend if he thought it was possible to love Turkey without loving Ataturk. He responded, almost angrily, ''absolutely not.'' To love Turkey to to love Ataturk: such is the official line. Even Turkey's most outspoken opposition parties (there are a few, but they're small) usually express loyalty to Ataturk, even when those professions are rhetorical at best.

Because Ataturk made no mistakes, all Turkey's problems stem from one of two sources: either the government has misinterpreted Ataturk's ideas, or foreign powers are (once again) meddling in Turkey's business. The latter point is hugely important, and expressed nicely in the common Turkish saying, ''There is no friend of the Turk except other Turks.'' (Turkey is not xenophobic: I feel very welcome here, as do most foreigners. However, many Turks believe that when the chips are down, their foreign allies will abandon them.)

It's important to note that several of Turkey's problems are unquestionably of its own making, and arguably traceable to decisions Ataturk made: Turkey's constant problems with its minorities can be traced to some of the young Republic's policies. The perennially unstable Turkish economy is partially the fault of outsiders, but much of the blame can be placed on Turkey and Ataturk's (quickly abandoned) etatism. But because a basic tenet of Turkish nationalism is that it is not Turkey's fault, foreign scapegoats are found and the real causes of these problems are ignored.

Some election day (seçim gün) observations from Turkey

I talked with two old men in my hotel lobby for a while this morning, while we shared bread and cheese. They were big believers in Obama, which I surmised from the way that gesticulated while saying ''Obama güzel! Bügün Amerikada seçim var.'' Okay, that was what I could say; their Turkish was considerably more complicated. But all the same, it was clear they backed the right man. I didn't ask if they thought he was a Muslim...

This afternoon, as I was wandering through a poorer part of Kars, lost as usual, I was surrounded by a gaggle of schoolkids who repeated ''Hellowhatisyournamewhereareyoufrom?'' over and over again. When I said I was American, they all started talking about Obama. We talked for 10 or 15 minutes about the election, and I answered their questions (in a mix of Turkish and English) about politics in the US. They were adamant that Bush had been terrible for the whole world, and asked if anything would change. Inşallah, I said. (Technically, that translates as 'Allah willing,'' but it is also used to express hope.) Then they asked me to take photos of them: they were, after all, just kids. But I was struck by how much they knew, and how much they cared--while I doubt they understand exactly how the US election will impact their lives (it will), they clearly realize that something important is happening today.

When I went to my favorite restaurant tonight, the friendly proprietor asked if I was excited to watch the election: I said I would be in bed, but that I hoped Obama would win. He agreed, as did everyone in the restaurant. I couldn't follow the conversations around me as I ate my dinner, but nearly everyone was talking about Obama.

I'm going to bed in an hour or so, and I'll sleep restlessly, wondering about election results. (And not just the presidency: there are plenty of other important races too.) Plenty of Turks will wake up tomorrow morning and turn on the television to hear the news from the US.

I am not one to get caught up in cults of personality, and I am certain Obama will not be all his supporters (I'm one) imagine. However, Obama has become a symbol of the world's desire for a good, honorable America. Turks like America: I can't say how many people have looked at me enviously, saying, ''I would like to go to America.'' (I never know how to respond.) I think Barack Obama has rekindled the American Dream in much of the rest of the world, and certainly here in Turkey: if America can elect a man like Obama, the thinking goes, I can succeed there as well.

I hope the US can be the good and honorable country these Turks imagine: it won't be easy. Electing Barack Obama is just the first step, and it is largely a question of his personal determination and willingness to confront Washington's entrenched elite, both Democrat and Republican, while simultanously ignoring the pundits who will insist he must ''govern from the center.'' If he wins, the rest of the world will be relieved, but his post-racial, multi-continental identity alone will not make him friends abroad.

Will those Turkish kids I talked with today have a friend in America, working to make their neighborhood--the middle east--safer? Will America welcome them if they want to visit or study? Will America stick up for real democracy in Turkey? Turkey is hopeful, but action, not eloquence, will determine our standing in the world.

And yes, I voted. I mailed my absentee ballot from Hopa, Turkey, where I had to convince reluctant postal workers to open the post office on a Saturday so I could recover my ballot from Poste Restante. I voted in a restaurant, where I showed the waitstaff the darkened oval next to Barack Obama. They liked that. I spent $35 to send it express to the US: worth every penny.

Just the twenty-second person in the 12-passenger bus

I've intended to update for several days, but I've been too busy stuffing myself into Russian-made minibuses, trying to decipher incomprehensible languages, and generally having a good time to write. I am in Kars, a big town in Turkey's far northeast, and for the first time in a week, I have nothing to do. I've just finished two lamacun, a bottle of ayran, and have just started the first of what will be many cups of çay tonight. (That's thin-crust Turkish pizza with no sauce, a yogurt drink, and tea, respectively.) Moments ago, I told a friendly waiter that Barak Obama is çok güzel, and that George Bush has been çok problem. Turkish isn't that hard.

Many of my recent days have reminded me of the classic circus trick ''how many clowns can you fit in a car?'' Except in my case, it's been a question of Georgians, Armenians, me, and 12-passenger vans. The most I've seen was 22--I was the twenty-second. These minibuses are called marshrutka, which I believe is Russian for ''downright terrible.''

Briefly, one memorable marshrutka ride: on the way from Sarpi (on the Turkish-Georgian border) to Tbilisi, I was offered the front seat, which I shared with a chain-smoking Georgian. She smoked those ridiculous thin cigarettes, just like everyone else in the Caucuses, and while smoke curled in front of me and Russian electronica beeped (chorus: ooh. ah. ooh. ah.), all I could think was: your thigh is touching mine. I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that. I've been traveling in conservative eastern Turkey for too long.

When we finally arrived in Tbilisi at 11 p.m., I threw myself at the mercy of a gang of taxi drivers, requesting that one of them drive me to an aipa otel. (That's the limit of my Georgian vocabulary: it means ''cheap hotel.'') They let me down. Any place called ''Nadya's'' cannot possibly be decent, and it wasn't. I spent the night in a glorified brothel, complete with a full bar downstairs and yelling until the wee hours. Worse, it was thirty dollars. Oh, how unhappy I was. I should have known bad things were coming when my taxi turned onto George W. Bush Boulevard--yes, that's the name of the highway that leads to Tbilisi's airport. It's signed with an illuminated portrait of Our Fearless Leader.

Yerevan was much nicer. I couchsurfed with Trixi, a delighful German women who has made it her mission to reform the entire Armenian education system. Kidding, she only teaches German at one of Yerevan's universities, but is doing her bit to end Soviet-style rote learning in Armenia.

Armenia's capital is a strange place. The first thing a traveler coming from Turkey notices is how tight everyone's clothes are. Next, one sees the shop windows: full of expensive brands and booze! But eyes finally turn to the old women (dressed in neither expensive nor tight clothes) selling radishes on the corner.

I pointed a lot in Armenia. I want this, the index finger says. How many? A handful of fingers answers that. Thank you is a smile, a nod, and a quiet ''merci.'' (I tried to learn ''thank you,'' but it's five syllables long and full of strange sounds. Luckily, everyone understands ''merci.'')

My four days in Armenia were largely devoted to my project: see my previous post for that. But I also found time to spend way too much on unexpectedly good Indian food and excellent Armenian cognac. A high point: drinks at a jazz club with the Croatian deputy minister of defense and the Slovenian deputy minister of foreign affairs. That was rather unexpected.

My return to Turkey was another marathon of marshrutka rides to the Georgian border, where I hitched a ride with a Turkish trucker for the final 20 km to Hopa, the first significant town in Turkey. I was pleased to be able to speak with him: five days of Georgian and Armenian had made me appreciate just how much Turkish I speak, even if I have no regard for grammar. I was particularly happy to ask him a highly complex question: ''Kaç gün yolda?'' ( How many days on the road?) I only knew how to say that because I had seen the Kerouac novel translated to Turkish.

A man in Hopa invited me to stay at his house and promised to teach me an ''ancient, secret Armenian language.'' He was also a communist, gleeful in the world's recent financial meltdown. He predicted the end of imperialism within five years; I told him I was not so optimistic. I normally would have accepted, but I was way too tired and had to be up early the next morning. I think I missed an opportunity there.

Another day of travel brought me to Kars. If the Armenian-Turkish border were open, I could have made it in four hours, but it took me nearly 24 hours of busing. Thanks a lot, history.

Yesterday, I climbed to the top of a big hill and took in the view. There isn't much to see: the area around Kars is mostly steppe, which stretches all the way to Sibera almost uninterrupted.

I spent the evening in a strangely hip bar, compete with traditional Turkish music, played by a youthful quartet. After a few numbers, tables were shoved aside and dancing broke out. I watched enviously for a bit, then screwed up my courage and joined in. I was quite proud myself: I learned the steps quickly, and few missed cues aside, I held my own. I was even briefly entrusted with a handkerchief, which I was to wave in time to the music. I returned to my hotel sober (drinks were expensive) but happy as hell.

Today, I visited Ani, which is a ruined fortress that has been held by Ottomans, Russians, and Seljuks at various times. It was built by Armenians as their capital city around a thousand years ago, and is just across the border from present-day Armenia. I could have thrown a stone and hit a Russian soldier on the over side. (Yes, Russians still guard the Armenian border.) It is a melancholy place: a reminder of a people long gone.

Ani makes the Turkish government uncomfortable, because it is a very visible reminder that this land was one part of a much larger Armenia. The word ''Armenia'' can't be found on a single sign in English or Turkish. Armenian script is all over, though: I even spotted a bit of Armenian graffiti on one church wall, right below an ancient Armenian inscription.

Not surprisingly, the only real restoration that's been done at Ani is of a single Seljuk mosque: archeology, like history, is used as a political tool here. (The Seljuks were an ancient Turkic people, and modern Turkey traces its lineage to them.) The Armenian Christian monuments are slowly falling down, and I get the feeling the Turkish government wouldn't mind if they disappeared all together. It's beautiful. But the overwhelming feeling is one of intentional neglect and silence.

Now I am on my fifth cup of tea--all included in the price of my meal. It is only 7 p.m., but it's been dark for two hours. This will be a challenge for the next few weeks: how to fill the bitterly cold hours after sundown? I predict many cups of tea, backgammon, and books.

Genocide: not as simple as it should be

I am in Kars, a city founded over a thousand years ago by Armenians. They called it ''Kari.'' Those Armenians are gone now, and almost no traces of them remain. I have spent much of the past few weeks (and the past two months, really), asking questions about this, and I have heard some strange things.

Turks call this ''The Armenian Question.'' Like there is a question. Starting in the late 19th century, Armenians were periodically massacred by the Ottomans, who employed both imperial troops and the local Kurds to do their dirty work. (There's a special irony to the role of the Kurds in all this, as they now find themselves under the thumb of the Turks, but I'll get to that in a couple weeks.) These massacres culminated with a near-total genocide of Armenians living in Ottoman lands during World War One: somewhere between one and two million were killed. Modern Turkey's eastern provinces--many of which had Armenians majorities prior to the genocide--were systematically emptied of a people who had lived for millenia.

And what do the Turks say about all this? Roughly, ''Ermenistan yok.'' There is no Armenia, at least historically speaking. According to them, those eastern provinces I mentioned never had more than small numbers of Armenians, which logically leads one to conclude that no genocide could have occurred, because it's impossible to kill people who never existed. The Turkish government, military, and most Turks deny the genocide, despite massive amounts of evidence to the contrary.

See, the Ottomans were not exactly quiet about this business of genocide. Mass graves were dug within sight of foreign cameras, international observers roamed about, journalists saw starving children in the streets, ambassadors wrote dispatches to Paris, London, and Washington. There were Armenian Aid Societies set up all over the world, even in Seattle. A decade later, Mustafa Kemal Atatürk aknowledged the genocide, saying that Turkey should expect some sort of international censure for its actions. (That quote sure isn't one Turkish students must memorize.) The evidence is overwhelming. There was a genocide.

I have met a few brave Turks who say just this, but they're rare. (I have spoken with many who admit what happened, but stop just short of calling it ''genocide.'') Almost no public figures are honest about what happened: newspapers wouldn't print those columns, televisions stations wouldn't air those interviews. This national denial has been going strong for over 70 years; it's reached the point that insisting ''there was no genocide!'' is as Turkish as tea houses and barber shops.

I have a hard time discussing this topic with Turks. My role in Turkey is to listen: I ask questions and try to avoid giving my opinion. But how can I stay silent in the face of such an awesome lie? I have heard, on multiple occasions, that it was actually the Armenians who perpetrated a genocide on the Turks, and that western powers created this ''story'' to weaken and divide Turkey. Would I listen voicelessly to someone saying this about the Holocaust?

I try not to respond, but I occasionally fail. One of my most memorable conversations in Turkey started when I was told that Turks could not have committed genocide because they are ''gentle people.'' And those Armenians? Well, they're ''bloodthirsty,'' which proves that they actually committed genocide. I lost it at that point, and started yelling about Turkish denial and insecurity, the evils of nationalism, and the politicization of history. I left that town that night.

I was in Armenia for a few days last week. It is a strange country, but you'll have to wait until my next post to hear why. I spent much of my time with Vahram Ter-Matevosyan, a professor of Turkish history at Yerevan State University. (I contacted him a couple of months ago to ask if he'd be able to help with my project, and he certainly did.) He was kind enough to turn over one of his classes to me for a day, so I was able to talk about the genocide and modern Turkey and Armenia with a group of 15 young Armenians for almost two hours.

It would be difficult for me to wrap all I learned into one post, so I'll try to summarize the key points. I opened by asking what they had known about Turkey before they took Vahram's class, and the answer was ''not much.''

In Armenia, the press only covers Turkey when there's something negative to report, if even then. The schools teach little beyond ''they did terrible things to us.'' The situation is similar in Turkey, where people know little about Armenia aside from the obvious fact that no genocide occurred. This lack of understanding on both sides encourages stereotyping and does nothing to combat hatred: one student told me about meeting a three-year-old Turk who told her, ''I must kill you because you are Armenian.'' (I'm not sure I believe that, but it's possible.) On the other side, the Armenian press is full of Turkophobia, occasionally violent. The average Turk and Armenian have learned nothing about the other, and thus believe what they're told by extremists on either side.

This was a surprisingly non-absolutist group. Everyone favored normalization of relations with Turkey, even if the Turks didn't immediately recognize the genocide. (This contrasts with the general position of the Armenian diaspora, which I'll get to momentarily.) Of course, this was a university class composed of students who had chosen to learn more about Turkey, so one could question whether their views reflect those of society as a whole. I did just that, and they said that while the political and media mainstream constantly trumpet ''no room for compromise!'' Armenians are considerably more flexible. This is particularly true of the post-Soviet youth: a significant majority of them favor improved relations with Turkey.

Now, this business of the diaspora. I had been convinced that Armenians were dead-set against reconciliation with Turkey until Turks recognize the genocide, but found that not to be the case in Armenia. If I were to have a similar conversation with Armenians living abroad, the result might be the opposite. This difference can be explained in two separate ways: first, those Armenians living abroad are almost all descendants of those who fled the Ottomans. Many have relatives who were killed by the Ottomans. Armenians in Armenia suffered as well, but not to the same degree: their ancestors were mostly safe behind Russian lines.

More importantly, Armenians in Armenia suffer because of poor relations with Turkey. The border between the two countries is closed, but Armenia still relies on Turkey for most of its imported goods, which are shipped via Georgia or Iran. Life would be much easier if the border were open. Diaspora Armenians are not hurt by their absolutism while those living in Armenia are.

I will watch this situation with interest for the next 20 or 30 years. (It's not going to end over night.) The youth of both countries seem tired of a conflict they have nothing to do with and hardly understand. Both sides have been programmed by their governments with lines like ''You killed my ancestors'' and ''you are a lying imperialist pawn.'' There are more people every day who question these lines: that makes me hope for progress.

Forget staying silent: my new message, for both Armenians and Turks, is ''don't believe your government or the media, go find out for yourself.''